His War
by Materia-Blade
Summary: Two years ago Harry Potter died. Believers in prophecy despaired and war swept the land. Meanwhile, forgotten in the mists, a spirit whispers in the ears of those who still remember the light. Telling them to be ready. To stand. One last time.
1. The Nightingale Witch

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. He, and all his characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. About one year ago I began my epic, _Her War_, detailing a war taking place in the depths of China. Now, I take my pen to England. Same plot. New Salvo. Lets get kickin'.

**His War**

"Every night he shows me. Every night... I... _see._ Even if I _die, _I'll fight my way up from hell to bring him down with me. On my eternal soul I swear I will stop him. I swear it."  
_- Harry Potter_

**Prologue  
The Nightingale Witch**

_Everything started going downhill. We'd like to not say why, but inside we all know it. He died, and Voldemort rose to power in near an instant. I blame myself, probably more than I should, but I suppose it's no matter now._

_The wizarding world had fallen, and muggles scampered like flies. The Dark One's hand waved and both groups fell like straw huts under a tsunami. I know how powerful the Dark One became. I fought him myself. In fact I was the only one besides Dumbledore who managed to hurt him, before He came back. And I barely stubbed his toe... all my endless study and for what? It was all for nothing. I confess that during those days near the end I sunk into a bit of the darker magics myself. Without Him... well. I never believed the prophecy. When even Dumbledore gave up all hope, I did not. Because unlike him, I didn't believe in prophecy. And look at me now..._

_When hope seemed lost I dove into my books. And when they weren't enough, I dove deeper. The Chamber of Secrets was not accessible to one without the tongue of the snakes. I had to get... creative to gain entry. And what I found gave me power. Power that, in the end, was useless. I'm not the chosen one. I'm not Him. I wasn't born as the seventh month died. The prophecy was true, and the power the dark lord knows not, was never found. At least, not until He came back._  
_  
In the end, I fell too._

_I only survived because the Dark One was impressed with me. And... Well, look at me now._

_Look at me now..._

* * *

Arna Granger twitched as she fingered the handle of the desert eagle sticking out of her left pocket. She was feeling particularly trigger happy, and being cooped up for so long had done little for her state of mind.

Sighing, she let the handle go, swathing a hand through her charcoal brown hair. Sweat trailed her brow as it had for days on end, but there was little help for that in this tiny place. Sweat lingered on them all like an old friend begging for money. Or perhaps shelter. That was even worse in this day and age.

Glancing around the room at her companions, seven excluding herself, she noted that they were equally nervous. Twitchy as she was, even. Young Scerlet, a strollup if Arna had ever met one, had happened upon their hideaway by chance and had escaped the foul beams of the outside world by the merest centimeter. The girl was young, no older than Arna's own daughter would've been now. A school girl, worse a slutty school girl, she'd proved herself to have almost no value to this little group.

Early on anyway...

Not many months had passed since Arna had witnessed the turnstring tear through a wizard's protego with a magicked sword to slice out his eyes in righteous vengeance. Yes. Scerlet had become one of the most bloodthirsty of their little group in the months that followed Lord Voldemort's rise to power.

She still shuddered when she remembered that. The image was no more gory than some of her own had been, yet it struck a harsh cord in her conscience when she witnessed what this war had made of children. And Scerlet was not the most dangerous member of their little group. Not even in the top three.

Fat Dursley. Heh, well the geezer wasn't so fat anymore. Honestly, in the months their group had been together before they'd taken refuge in this cesspool of boredom the man had thinned out quite nicely. She could admit he was an attractive man, if only the thoughts didn't make her feel so damn guilty.

His son and wife had been dead for two years. Amazing what that sort of thing could do to a man. When she'd first met him with his child, Dudley and wife Petunia in tow she'd thought he and his family would be a hindrance to their movements. And boy, had she been right. They'd hindered. And they'd died for it. Only Vernon had survived and by the sheerest of luck at that. Life and death situations really brought out the best in a man, and he hadn't been afraid to dive back for the ones he loved. He just hadn't been fast enough...

Now the man stood coolly; one of only two here who could manage the emotion. He had a double barrel shotgun, loaded with bullets magically capable of passing through most regular shields and if not killing outright, then at the very least a stun would inflict the victim. A clip of extra magazines hung around the strap that covered his otherwise bare chest. Muscles that had once been layered in fat now decorated his stomach and biceps, along with the small girl Emily who was held gingerly in the man's other arm.

Emily was a cute one, she was. So very young with a soul brighter than any. Her parents had been killed almost a year before. And Vernon, bless the fool's soul, had run through the curses of those mad wizard bastards to save her. From a _freezing house... _

...And god damn her if that wasn't the day the fat old man had graduated to badass in her opinion.

Others too resided here. Marly, the only wizard among them, had been the key to their minimal success. A mediocre wizard at best, the man, well boy really, had been a fourth year Hogwarts student when this had all begun. A halfblood, and sickly most of the time, the wizard had shown bravery that few others could compare to. Despite his youth, the boy had been a potions prodigy. Raised by muggles, he'd always been curious about the possibility of magical weapons...

He'd made them. And he'd used them the night that... that...

_'No Arna. Doesn't do to think about that. Doesn't do at all.' _The woman thought bitterly. Her own past might have been worse than Dursley's. His child had died a clean death. Hers...? No. Best not to think of it.

Instead she turned her mind to the science. It had become her purpose since this war had turned her so bitter. Once she could remember a time when she lived a happy life as a dentist, with a dentist husband. She'd had a wonderful and bright child. A girl who would one day make the world a place that shined brighter than it ever had. Or... so she thought.

When that life had been ripped from her, she turned her studies into weapons. Her profession might have dealt with teeth, but she knew the body from years of biology classes slammed into her mind. That, and her daughter had owned a collection of thousands of books on magic. A collection that she had raided.

What use was a Protego shield against poisonous gasses? What help was the Dark Flare Barrier, when a bullet contained a tickling charm? Stupefy couldn't stun a man who was pumped full of magically enhanced epinephrine. Even the dreaded Crucio could be blocked by someone with CIPA. Or rather, _couldn't be felt._ And _magic_ could induce that most wonderful of symptoms...

_'Let me tell you... if you want to scare the shit out of a death eater? Let his Crucio hit you and start laughing. That'll fuck em' right up.' _She thought with a bitter laugh.

She had not found a way to block the Avada Kedavra. The only defense against that one was _run_. Light how she wished she could find a single book that discussed those two curses. The only knowledge she had of them had been gleaned from first hand experience. Not the best way to learn when those were involved.

All her efforts had borne the meager fruit of Wizarding ruin. She'd succeeded in killing her targets and lived to tell the tale countless times already. And the purebloods who had started this whole war had labeled her 'Terrorist.' They called her and her vigilante group scum, and mudbloods and_ muggle fiends_. The wizards and witches who lived under their Lord Sovereign _Voldemort_... They _feared_ her. They had taken her husband. Destroyed her daughter. Destroyed her world, and waged a war that cost thousands of lives, wizard and normal alike. And for retaliating... they feared _her_.

Her meager science. Her attacks on the Wizarding world that the Dark Lord had overtaken...? They had done what? Killed several death eaters, and a dementor or two? Phaw. What use...?

But none of them could stop. What else did they have? No one here had much else to lose. Antonio, an immigrant from America who barely spoke the language without bastardizing it to hell, had been the owner of a Toilet Paper company once. To the best of her knowledge he'd been a founder of the company, and he'd had... secretaries. Pretty, well paid, secretaries that did much more than file his papers. In a kinder world she would have found the man sickening. But he had paid those women, despite his perverseness.

Voldemort had slaughtered them, because of something as stupid as blood. As stupid as who had been born with the lucky ability to manipulate the Ethers...

Milo acted like a kid, though he was actually almost ten years older than Marly. Near enough to Arna's own age, in fact. Dark of skin, he was probably in his late twenties. The man currently fingered a pilfered M16 that only he among them was capable of wielding effectively. A member of Her Magesty's troops for almost seven years, the man had returned home from service only to discover his family had been slaughtered two weeks previously. Not believing the propaganda that a bad gas leak had blown up his family's home of four generations, the man had dug deeper. And that had led him to the magical world... and to her.

He was the brains behind her tactical plans. Together, she, Milo, Vernon, and Antonio had probably taken more lives than most death eaters could claim.

Still an utterly useless gesture. Their entire team was a useless gesture. She'd created this guerrilla force to stop the magical takeover by a madman, and named it AVALANCHE with the hopes of saving what was left of this once great nation.

Their hopes were in vain... only now did she understand just how slim their chances of success truly were.

_'I _watched_ that bastard take a magically enhanced bullet to the head. I watched his head cock back, and I saw the blood spray...' _She thought grimly, still trying to believe what her own eyes had shown her. Not only had she seen the power of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, she'd challenged it directly. She'd murdered him. Point blank with the gun residing in her very hand. The plan had been fool proof, and had gone off almost flawlessly. She had managed to get into the unholy bastard's presence, cloaked in disilusionment charms that Marly had learned from Arna's daughter's books. She'd gotten right behind him, and placed the barrel of her Desert Eagle straight against the creature's forehead. Within the barrel resided a bullet powered by all the hatred the young would-be sixth year wizard had. A bullet empowered with the Avada Kedavra curse. She'd pulled the trigger without preamble or words. An assassination. For what the bastard had done to her daughter, to Marly, to Scerlet... Vernon and the boy hero Harry. He'd not even deserved to be assassinated. For what he'd done to the world, he deserved so much less...

_'...And I saw him turn back; I listened to the sound of his snake-like neck craning back into place, and watched him start laughing.'_ She shuddered as the memory came unbidden to her mind. Months ago now, and she was _still_ fucking terrified. Honestly she still didn't know how the hell she was alive and uncaptured. Muggle smoke bombs. Could wizards truly be so easy to fool?

A sense of hopelessness had settled over all of them after that. They had ceased all operations. They had stopped killing death eaters. They had stopped _everything_. Everything save for the endless running. Because... if a bullet to the head, with the darkness of the Avada Kedavra stored within, and backed by speed greater than sound couldn't even _phase_ the Dark Lord... what could?

_"Only a Miracle." _Arna murmured.

"Arna you've got to talk sometime... We know whatever it was you saw's got'cha scared. But we can't just hide in this silo forever. Where running low on provisions. We need a plan. Arna, we _need you!"_ Vernon Dursley's voice broke the silence with the bluster of a man that should be twice his size. The tone sounded a bit silly on his tongue. Watching her intently, the man chanced a glance towards Emily and gave her a placating smile to assuage the worry in the young girl's eyes.

"Vernon, I... Just wish you could've seen. It's so hopeless..."

"Don't be sad, Mommy." Emily piped up with an innocence that only a child could emulate. The poor thing didn't remember her real parents. Three years old and intensely blond hair, the small child was already a trained master in the fine art of using the jon. And, much less importantly, already showing signs of magic. Arna wished she could be happy for the girl. But remembering her own daughter, so long ago, left a rotten taste in her mouth. Her daughter had once had magic. Her daughter had once been a happy girl like little smiling Emily. No longer.

No longer.

"I... I'm not sad, Emils. Just angsting a bit," Arna joked, edging a bit of humor into her tone to appease the girl. Then she turned her eyes back to Vernon. "Don't mind me. We won't be here more than a few more hours. Just because we failed once doesn't mean I'm done... you old prune." The lie came easily to her lips. She'd given up hope some time ago.

But there was always light. Vernon grinned a naughty grin at her, and it lit Arna's tiny little world. God did send small favors it times. If it weren't for this war... if it weren't for the small abandoned three year old in the man's arms, held just as gingerly as the shotgun in his other, Arna thought she might fall in love with him. Bloody hell she might've already fallen. They'd both had similar pasts after all. Horrifyingly similar. She'd lost a husband and daughter; he, a wife and son.

They might be among the last group of non magical people in Britain and she had found a man to fall in love with. God's small favors...

"Angsting by youself? Oh do contribute. God knows this dump could use a bit of humor." The man added with a smirk. Humor. It was the only thing that kept them going sometimes. A little band of miscreants trying to save Great Britain. One erased Dark Mark at a time.

"Oi!" Milo piped up from a chair in the kitchen a little ways down the hall. "My silo ain't a dump, ya 'ere!"

"Is too, is too!" Piped the little Emily from her place in Vernon's arms and the man guffawed.

"Emily seems to disagree, Milo." He bragged, egging the dark skinned man on with a fading laugh. Vernon had never been one to shy away from a good joke, and the man seemed to get a strange sort of joy out of tormenting the ex soldier. Milo tolerated it with a grudging act, but they all knew Vernon and he had become very close friends. It was always an added delight when Emily joined in on their little games.

This world needed little lights.

"Emily!" Thelma, the last of their little troop peedled in her croaky elderly voice. "Vernon, you must start teaching that girl her manners! You know Milo went through alot of trouble to get this place in working order and-!"

"Can it! Windbag!" Vernon insulted her, in the way that each of them had grown in jibe at the others. His tone still had a playful glint, his eyes alight with laughter that Arna could not revel in. The old woman had trouble keeping from cracking a grin at him herself, but she managed keeping her tone firm in light of the smile on his face. A smile that still held hope. He hadn't been there to see the bullet...

"I will _not_ _can it_, you oaf!" The old woman barked, her knoby finger poking the man's mostly bare chest through the magazine of bullets draped across his shoulders. "You will apologize! How would you feel if you spent an entire day preparing a shelter and _your_ guests called it a dump?"

"It is a dump, Thelms." Milo called from his chair down the hall, contradicting his earlier indignation in light of the laughs. His voice held the sound of munching. Probably scarfing down some more of that four-hundred year old popcorn they had pilfered from the remains of a gas station. Honestly Arna couldn't tell how the man stuffed it down. But when there was nothing else... she supposed she would have to deal with that soon herself.

Their food supplies _were _running low.

"Shut it you!" Thelma replied heatedly. "Vernon Dursley, you will apologize. And you will too Missy. As for you Milo!" She called again turning her voice down to the ex soldier. "You won't accept their apology because they don't deserve it."

"Yes Ma'am." Came back a half hearted reply. Milo was playing with his guns again. He'd probably barely caught two words.

Vernon, Emily, and Milo all shared a snicker of laughter between Thelma's rage. A smile reached Antonio's lips, Scerlet seemed delighted, and even Marty, still recovering four months later from the energy it had taken to place an Avada Kedavra curse into a bullet, could not hide a grin. The whole situation almost felt like...

Like...

_Family._

Somehow she felt like an outsider now. Because she knew the truth. They fought an enemy that could not die, in a war they were doomed to lose. It hurt. Too much of a burden for one soul to bear. Yet too harsh a truth to lay on the shoulders of others. As she smiled outwardly, inside she wept, for the deaths that awaited them.

The ground suddenly shook, and their laughter faded instantly, replaced by tension thick enough to be molded into dough. Someone was at the door. Someone _had_ discovered them. Worst of all, it seemed someone was battering the metal construct down. Thrice damned bludgeoning hex!

Vernon let the small girl down to the floor and gave her a sharp, curt nod, which the three year old understood with perfect clarity. The girl scampered away towards the backroom. A small little half trapdoor hidden inconspicuously by floor tiles lifted, and the girl climbed down in. Fear was in her eyes as she crawled out of Arna's view, but she couldn't worry about that. Little Emily was safe. Probably.

This had been their last resort. No escape. And none of them would surrender, lest Emily be found and captured. Here...

Here was where they would probably die.

Old Thelma's visage grew dim and she addled her way to the back room to hover over Emily's trapdoor, her small machine pistol at the ready. Marly followed almost on her heels, his wand out and a determined look on his face, despite his sickly visage. Thelma was Marly's grandmother. A muggle herself, as his parents were, he'd been the first wizard of their family, and same as herself, his family had been shocked when they'd gotten their first Hogwarts letter.

His parents were dead now. It was only through that hatred that Marly had been able to replicate the Avada Kedavra curse. Seeing so many enemies use it had imprinted the wand movements to memory, and the words were very hard to forget...

She pulled out her handgun, and faced the door, just as it shook again, the entire underground fortress seeming to rumble with the power behind the magics surely being used outside.

"Well Arna... this is probably it." Vernon said limply, his voice taking on a defeated tone as he cocked his shotgun.

"...Aye." She stated, a depressed tone to her voice. They'd fought a good fight, but they could only run for so long. How much could they do against an immortal? The best of muggle and magic had been leveled against the Dark Lord, and they had proved ineffective. They had hardly even daunted him.

Their time was at an end. Arna could only hope little Emily somehow remained safe. And in her heart, pray for her own daughter...

...No matter what she had become.

The silo rumbled more heavily this time, but instead of an all over feel, the shaking was concentrated on the great doors fully now. There was no doubt. They'd been found. It was saddening how unsurprised any of them were as a sense of resignation seemed to take them all in.

"This, ah... This is probably my last chance to tell you. May my dear Petunia forgive me. Arna, I love you." The man said it with a casual grace that belied the butterfly that suddenly erupted within her stomach.

He was six years her senior!

_Damn attractive for it._

Bollocks! He was married with a child!

_Both deceased. He's a widow._

_She_ was married with a child!

_Widowed as well. Child might as well be dead._

Her mind fought and battled and raged, indignation warring with attraction dueling with outright giddiness. But somehow her words had filed right on where her brain had become a washed up mess. "Old Prune," she affected playfully, despite the tense situation. "I love you, too."

Her mind was appalled with her words, not even realizing they had unwilling slipped from her mouth for a few moments, but the grin on his face made the whole situation worth it. Happy smiles appeared on the faces of those around them. Smiles of dead, wishing for a fond and swift journey to the world beyond Smiles... as they bared their guns at the door, prepared and waiting for their final battle.

"Yay!" Came an excited squeak from beneath the tiles, bubbling out from the back room, the girl unable to contain her emotion. No one could blame her. Thelma didn't even scold her. Little Emily voiced the emotions of all present with her happy coos. She didn't understand what was to come... How could she?

A final resounding crash, and the metal bent inward, jarring loose from the mechanic crankshafts that held it. As if pulled by a massive vacuum, the loosened door was sucked away, sliding into the air as if it were a pop-tab and tossed miles into the distance, letting sunlight crash down upon the eyes of the final members of the rebellion. What few members there had ever been...

"Fire!" Milo cried.

And bullets hailed. Her handgun stung her fingers as each shot into the disembodied figures on the other side of the door rung in her ears. The shotgun in Vernon's hands pelted at the barrier that arose before any bullets could make it through. Shock tinged Arna's thoughts but there was nothing for it.

_'So they found a way to counter the magic enhanced bullets. Well, we were doomed anyway. Might as well go out with a bang...' _Arna thought as she undid the pocket where her last resort lay.  
_  
_"STOP!" A woman's voice called, dim amongst the blaze of colorful bullets pelting the shimmering blue barrier. But at the same time, horrifyingly familiar. The voice tugged at Arna's memory like a fishing hook, latching onto her tongue, but she couldn't place it.

Arna reached into the belt of her pants pouch and pulled out one of the three remaining grenades during the sparse moment where the guns clicked their final rounds, reload needed. She didn't plan to use it... yet. But if it came to it, her finger was on the clip.

Without warning Arna felt the ground beneath her go wobbly. Then a tangible wave of air seemed to blast her off her feet. She flew, slamming into the hard metal wall with a grunt, and sliding to her bottom wearily. Dazed, she looked around to find her companions in similar states of disarray.

Smoke blotted the doorway, dredged up from the sizzling impact of magical bullets meeting impenetrable barriers. She herself had the most versatile gun, and she scrambled for it, the Desert Eagle sliding into her fingers from its place on the floor just as she watched a figure materialize through the smoke, shimmering barrier shining around her.

Arna's eyes widened, first in horror. Then, anger.

She stood, leveling her pistol shakily against the black suited woman, her left finger hanging on the clip of her grenades. Her hands trembled as she struggled with her own conscience, the barrel of her weapon aiming down the abomination before her.

The creature, a girl it had been once, whose face swam with black shadows, slithering like snakes beneath her skin. Her body was covered with a skintight suit that showed a form of beauty that none could deny, but anywhere skin was exposed, the real heart of the black witch slithered visibly in the form of those shadows. Her fingernails showcased the monsters living inside her; the short brown hair of a girl who once cried in her arms about being teased at school, now stood before her in all her palpable darkness.

Not even the Dark Lord himself had drawn more innocent Muggle blood. It was said, whispered in rumor and hearsay in the dark corners of society where even the death eaters shut their mouths and closed their eyes for fear of knowledge they did not wish to know, that the Black Princess was a mudblood herself. It was whispered that the Nightingale Witch was the child of muggles.

The whispers were true. The dark witch's real name was as much taboo as that of Tom Riddle. In the time since the Dark One's pet had lost her humanity, the world, both wizarding and muggle, had forgotten who she was. What she had been, and all the _good_ that she had once represented. But Arna never could. Never in all her life could she forget the small child who didn't fit in. Who loved to study with all her heart...

The Nightingale Witch.

Hermione Granger.

* * *

_**Author's Notes:**_ This little snippet is the beginning of an entirely new venue. Her War is not done, nor dead. But In my desperate attempt to escape this unbearable writer's block that has descended upon me, I give you this. The parallel to Her War, this fic's scope is going to hopefully be as epic and just as entertaining.

Wish me luck in escaping my insufferable writer's block, as I'm dying to get out of it. Hopefully chapters will start spilling a bit quicker from now on again, but more and more I'm being drawn to writing my own book. I'm getting a long way done, so in the near future, keep a look out on the bookshelves for **_Array's Ring. _**It'll be a while yet of course but this little project is growing in scope and size by the day.

So I guess that's all! Don't forget to **Leave a Review!**

Till Next!  
MB


	2. One Small Light

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. He, and all his story's characters are the property of J.K. Rowling. About one year ago I began my epic, _Her War_, detailing a war taking place in the depths of China. Now, I take my pen to England. Same plot. New Salvo. Lets get kickin'.

**His War**

"Every night he shows me. Every night... I... _see._ Even if I _die, _I'll fight my way up from hell to bring him down with me. On my eternal soul I swear I will stop him. I swear it."

_- Harry Potter_

**Chapter One  
One Small Light**

_The days were dark then. _

_He never realized just how much light he truly gave off. And the people around him took him for granted. They him as a shy or strange boy. Muggleborn basically and awkward for it but still He was the boy who lived! And he lit their way. In times of dark, in hours of night, when people feared, dreaded, they believed in that young man. They finally had _something_ to believe in._

_What fools they were to trust so much to the hands of one so young. They had no right to heap such responsibility on Him. But heap they did. And they paid the price for laying too much on the shoulders of their hero. _

_They were saved in the end. We were saved..._

_...But we paid for it. Dearly._

_

* * *

_

_"You..." _Arna hissed. Her fingers moved faster than they ever had, flipping the clip out from her belt and replacing the old one in her handgun's hilt with an expert's ease. She stood, disregarding the danger and the wand in the foolhardy demoness's hand as she trained the reloaded .50 caliber on the girl standing before her. It shook in her grasp but the end of the barrel never left its target: the girl's damnable head.

"Mother..."The creature spoke with a voice that sung in Arna's dreams and memories. The creature with the shape of a human girl was dressed in the blackened skin that it had worn ever since that terrible night... that night when 'it' had ceased to be her daughter. That night when Hermione Granger had become a monster.

"You daren't call me that. You're no daughter of mine." Her voice shook more than the pistol in her fingers, but fire had ceased. The members of the rebellion stared at her, and at the Black Princess with trepidation. Marly's wand trained on the brown-haired witch. Vernon held the shotgun in one hand, finger on the trigger aimed at the door, a small pistol aimed at the girl who had once been Arna's daughter held in his left.

Tears came to the girl's eyes. Wherever her skin was visible the black things moved. Upon her hands worms seemed to crawl, their impression darkening her skin just above. Strangely, she wore clothes. Normal clothes, like her daughter had once worn. But her hands swam with squirming things leaving only bare patches of the once white skin visible. Her face too swam with the strange, ever writhing trails of menacing black, like snakes slithering beneath it. Glossy snakes sliding all over her carrying the tarnish of the evil she had festered in.

"Please... Mother..." It spoke with Hermione's voice, but it's look held the visage of the Black Princess. The Hand of the Depths. Those who saw the Blackblood Heir despaired. All knew the dirty brown cropped hair of the girl who had slain the Queen. All knew the girl who had begun this wretched war... Her name whispered on the edge of fear brought conversation to a halt, and her presence was a sure sign of death.

How it had pained Arna to know she had borne such wretched thing into this world. But now that face was stained with tears, even as the shadows swam beneath her cheeks. Now that face... wept?

"He is dead, mother. I came... to find you... and tell you. Voldemort's terror is finally over." The girl breathed. All around the breaths of those present were held. Could it be? Could it truly be as simple as that? While they'd been hiding away, Voldemort had been offed?

Surely things weren't that easy. Surely not...

"How could I trust you? How could _anyone _trust you, after the things you've done?" Arna screamed, stepping forward and placing the gun directly to her daughters head. Rage and horror combined within her, but rage was winning. This girl was a monster! This _thing_ had slain more muggles than even the Dark Lord himself, when she had destroyed the Cherindere...

"Please..." The girl begged. The tears in her eyes seemed so real. So very real... But the snakes of blackness swimming beneath them ruined whatever plea of innocence the girl might've had. "I beg you to listen... Trust you daughter. Just one more time..."

The last time Hermione had said similar words, thousands had paid in blood. And now the monster had the gall... the audacity to come here and say it was _over! _It wouldn't be over... not until she-!

Arna fumbled with the effects of the expelliarmus as she felt it touch her, her gun fumbling from her fingers, jerking away from her grasp. She tugged on the string tied to the gun's hilt to pull it back, but it snapped, and the gun flew. Fearfully, she saw the rest of her companions weapons also flinging themselves towards the door, where the smoke was finally clearing.

A man stood there, draping black cloak, fringed in darkness and swathes of black. Deep, and rippled with wrinkles, the cloak was eerily similar to Voldemort's own. The only thing that assured her this wasn't the dark lord himself was the pale skin. As the guns approached him, he waved his hand and they rocketed out the hole where the door had once been, flying out of view in the same way the door had.

He turned back to face them and Arna froze. Her eyes locked onto the dead red glowing orbs of the man's fury, she despaired. Only one man had those red eyes. Pale skin or not... this _was him!_

"Hermione..." The man sighed, with a pleading tone, completely ruining his furious visage. "They won't believe you unless you _show_ them."

"I won't do that!" The bushy haired girl snapped- Snapped? -at the Dark Lord. What in the world?  
"Fine. I will." The man who seemed so much like the Dark Lord stated. His wrist flicked like a thunderbolt, Arna didn't even have time to register a spell was being cast before it captured her. _"Imperio!"_

Arna Granger suddenly felt light headed. The world around her seemed to grow covered in a haze of filmy white. She could see Vernon Dursley, the man she loved, glancing warily between the pale skinned man, the Black Princess, and herself. She could still feel the heat from the hailstorm of bullets impacting on the blue barrier spell she'd witnessed before. But the words being spoken were lost on her.

Her daughter... the black princess. She seemed... angry? But the girl hadn't shown any emotion in so long... it felt nice. To hear the girl speak with a human tongue again. Oh! And... and her eyes weren't filmed over with that strange glossy look they'd had for so long! That was good. She looked so much better with her brown eyes...  
_Arna... _A voice seemed to whisper in her ear and she turned, finding the man who minded her of the Dark Lord. It felt wonderful. The voice felt pleasurable in some sort of way. Listening to it, doing as it commanded her would fulfill her every wish. Her every desire could be granted by this voice. This man...?

_Arna, attack your daughter._

Arna bolted, her fingers stretching above her as she tackled the surprised form of the Nightengale Witch to the ground. The girl's wand flew from her hands, and Arna grabbed it and threw it away, knowing that the girl could use it to halt her attack. And she had to attack. The man had told her to attack. So...

_Stop. Stand._

Arna halted her attack immediately, moments before her fingernails would have raked through her daughter's face. She stood as fast as she could. The voice had to be pleased. She could feel the eyes of her companions on her, bulging as they remained frozen for some reason.

_Tell me the names of your companions._

_'No!' _A small voice hidden in the very depths of her mind screamed. _'No! You can't do that!'_

But he wanted her to. The voice who could grant her anything, the voice she had to obey, _wanted_ her to. How could she say no? Why would she _want _to deny him anything? Let alone her mere obedience? Gods she wanted to please him so _badly!_

"Vernon Dursley." She stated pointing first to the man standing there. In response to her words the man's eyes rounded on her, horrified. Her finger trailed away from him, to the next of her companions.

"Antonio Everise." Her finger trailed once more, crossing the room so she could better introduce her Master to those she traveled with.

"This is Milo. He hasn't given a last name." She stated, pointing towards the black man. Then she stood again and walked closer to the back.  
"Marly Scapes." She stated, and idly noted that the man's wand had apparently been wrested from him as well when the Master had summoned their weapons. Strange that... Marly was a mediocre wizard, but he was by no means incompetent.

"The girl hiding in the closet is Scerlet Maron." She stated. "In the back is Thelma Royse. In the trapdoor beneath her is... is..."

_"Gods NO!" _Her subconscious screamed. But the master had to be pleased.

"...Emily Dursley."

Without warning a _wave_ of awareness flooded into her. Lightheaded, she stumbled, catching herself on a wall, only now realizing what she had done. Her jaw dropped and she covered it with her hand. How could she have... _how could she...?_

"_How could you!" _Vernon roared at her, only now recovering from his shock. "Arna how-!"

"_This...!" _The man at the door, the man she had so recently thought of as _master,_ interrupted. "Is what Hermione has been facing all this time. This is the truth behind the Black Princess. The Dark Lord wanted to destroy the hopes of those who sided with the light. What better way than making the brightest witch of her age into an abomination?"

"You're such a flatterer..." The Blackblood Heir drawled sarcastically, as she stood from her spot on the ground and bent to retrieve her wand.

"It would probably offend you... If I weren't worse still." The black clad man replied somberly.

Arna didn't know what to feel... She didn't... she couldn't believe. But by god, under that curse she would've done _anything! _Hell, she'd attacked her own daughter without a second thought! Given away the location and name of the girl she hoped would one day be her adoptive daughter with barely a stutter! And... Hermione...? Gods if Hermione had killed her own father... killed all those people against her will? Arna felt like she'd betrayed everything just by giving away those few names. What if he'd made her _kill_ Vernon? Or... or Emily?

Seven bloody hells... What irony that the Black Princess was a victim herself?

"My daughter... was innocent?" She asked, unable to look upon the girl she'd almost killed. Oh, how she wanted to believe. _Oh_ _how_ she had_ wished_ these things were true when the girl had tortured innocent children before her eyes. What she had done at the Cherindere? "How...? How can I believe this? So many things she's done. So many..."

"Your daughter threw off the combined weight of _seven_ of those curses when she was ordered to kill her father." The man spoke with a heated gaze that pierced her as he approached. She couldn't look at him, and instead finally set her eyes upon her daughter and found a slight tinge of red in the girl's cheeks. She looked so human, despite the blackness. Was it possible?

"Did you never wonder why you were able to escape? Why she hesitated when she could have killed you that first night? Even the Dark Lord himself was unable to make her kill her own mother. Love is that strong." The man seemed to trail off, his words echoing thoughts more than actual conversation, taking on a forlorn expression. "Dumbledore was right after all..."

Arna was stunned speechless. Her eyes trailed to the man, back to her daughter, and to the man again in slackjawed horror.

"Who _are you?"_ Came a surprisingly petulant voice, and it took a moment for Arna to realize that it was Vernon.

The man made a smile, spiked and slick black hair bouncing at the sly grin that spread across his face. "A curious question from you, Vernon Dursley." He made no move to answer the question, but his smirk grew wider still.

"How can ya prove any of this, eh?" Milo spoke up, being the first of their group brave enough to move, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs and sitting. "Why should we believe _any_ of this? You barge in here, and take our weapons and expect us to trust that we can come out of hiding now? That Old Lord Slither bit the dust and we're safe to just..._ go?_"

The man turned and was about to reply, but Hermione beat him to the punch. "I'd think the fact that you are still alive would be enough to make you consider the possibility. While under the Imperius Curse, my orders were to be... _ruthless. _And I was. I still see them _begging_ me... I..."

The girl trailed off and gulped audibly as palpable guilt filled her tongue and her eyes glazed over in memory. The image would have been pitiable if not for the dark shadows of snakes still slithering beneath her skin.

"Sit," The man stated suddenly, as he approached Hermione, and placed his hand around her back, guiding her to the couch that Arna had crouched behind earlier. She turned and looked up into his eyes with a calm, smile that lightened her demeanor by a fraction. A small thing. A gentle touch, that implied more than any words could.

After that the man turned upon his now unarmed audience with a surprisingly comely attitude. "Sit, sit. I know I'm not pretty, but I won't hurt anyone."

The man's insistent ushering was surprisingly effective. Thelma poked her head out from behind the back wall, and even Scerlet crept out of the confines of the only closet in the small silo and took a place at their tiny kitchen table, eyes trained on the intruders like a trapped mouse, waiting for a bird to strike.

The man's eyes trailed them all but stopped in sudden and open surprise as his eyes fell on Scerlet. It was comical to see such a sinister looking man appear so shocked, but he did. Scerlet met his eyes, fearful, yet determined to appear brave.

_"Eiko!" _The man exclaimed.

The girl blinked. Then backed away, her guard risen. This was a shock. Eiko? Had Scerlet lied to them about her name?

"It _is_ you!" The man exclaimed in utter delight. "Oh bloody... gods it is good to see you!"

Scerlet appeared taken back. The sheer joy in his eyes disconcerted the girl, as it was quite apparent that she, like the rest of them, had no idea who he was.

"Do I... Do I know you?" She asked timidly.

The man's smile only widened. "To the bottom of your soul, you do Eiko. It is thanks to you that I live." With those words, the man made a bow, and Scerlet- Eiko, apparently- gasped.

"H... Har... by god you're real!" The girl screamed. It was Arna's turn to feel shock as she watched the girl, cold and calloused as they come, fill her eyes with tears of joy. She dashed to him, dropping whatever fear she might've had, and grasped him in a hug.

The man's eyes lit up. They were lighthearted. Almost jovial, now that the heavy tension had been somewhat alleviated. "I am ss real as you. As real as magic. I'll tell you what happened. Maybe then you'll be able to believe. It all started..."

**"...about two years ago."**

* * *

Harry Potter did not consider himself a fool. But what he was currently doing was the epitome of foolishness. This course of action had been a risk, he knew. But he didn't really have a choice. No one was listening, as always. Dumbledore, in particular, seemed to be actively _avoiding _Harry. But even if they _had _listened to him. Even if they had cared, he would still be here. He would do the least that could be done.

His feet clapped lightly on the puddle-covered cobblestone street, splashing through the thin layer of water left by the late evening's rain. The sun was falling and people bustled about, from place to place, all looking quite busy. Muggle London was always like that. Even if it was raining, it would be hard to spot a spare patch of sidewalk not covered by the strum of human feet.

He'd thought about using his invisibility cloak, and he had it with him just in case it was needed, but for the moment, it was safer to simply blend in as one of the thousands of pedestrians.

Karnette street opened onto Maudevauk Boulevard with an abrupt change as Harry suddenly broke free from the dense throng of people. Glancing around he realized that he had found the place he was searching for. His eyes focused on a small house a few hundred meters up the much smaller street, and began to hurry along. The day was sunny, and the vision of the little boulevard seemed multitudes less threatening under the daylight, then it had at night.

Harry twinged as he spotted the large hole in a nearby brick wall. An almost perfect circle nearly three feet in diameter, cut straight through the bricks. Impossible to muggles. The oddity appeared deserted. It appeared that no one had noticed the events that had transpired in the dark corner of London the previous night. All the better for it. The more attention drawn here, the more victims there would be...

The house seemed very out of place. It was hidden between a large six story apartment building and several clubs that, while intensely lit by night, were now deadened by the daylight. Curiously, the home had a very small lawn, that had suffered tremendously under the effects of winter. Luckily, the snow was clear for the moment, so the walkway was safe from slippery ice or dredging snow. Instead it was afflicted with the horrid ugliness of melted rain, mud, and flat unhealthy grass.

A steel poled gate fenced the house. It had been an intimidating gate once, but now several sections of the fence had been blown away, as if bashed by a wrecking ball that had only just begun its job, before leaving to find something else to smash. More reductors.

Addling his way up the walkway, taking care with the uneven cracks that spidered all about its aged surface, Harry idlly noted the shattered pots that had once held flowers. The house was... well... crummy was the first thought Harry had of it with this view. One of the windows had been busted. Upon closer inspection, Harry noticed with a small flicker of fear, drops of red caking the daggers of jagged glass that still clung to the framework. Hints of blood and of the events that had transpired here and in the building nearby.

He knew what had happened here. The pots, and the building. With each new out of place fixture his heart sunk as he realized that his visions and dreams were quite true.

_'I just hope she's still alive...' _Harry thought dismally.

He entered the house, but withdrew his wand as he did so. It was unlikely that anyone, including the victim of the previous night's raid would still be here. But he had to try. He had to do _something._

_"Is anyone there?" _Faint, the words sounded hoarse and strained. Harry's eyes widened. No... No she couldn't still be under that-!

Harry walked into the dining room and the room he had witnessed the night before through another's eyes. The table, once fine wood that the Dursley's would've been proud to own, now lay toppled, its four legs reaching towards the ceiling.

"Where are you!" Harry hissed, unsure. The girl couldn't still be _alive..._ could she?

_"Please... I ache. Mercy...!" _The voice, a young girl surely no older than he, emanated from beneath the massive table.

The words sent a shiver down Harry's spine. The shiver was followed quickly by a surge of anger and hatred.

_"God damn him." _Harry hissed in his mind._ "I swear to god I'll kill him somehow... someday." _

Worry was the third emotion to grace his mind, and he knelt down immediately. The table was heavy. Two men might have trouble lifting it, but Harry had magic on his side.

_"Pennafio!" _Harry murmured with a flick of his wand, and he heard the girl exhale relief as the table became light enough for a child to lift.

He knelt and picked up the table, tossing it away to reveal the smashed, yet still living body of the young girl he 'd known would be there. A girl he had scene the night before in his dreams.

"It hurts..." The voice whimpered, and the tone struck Harry hard. His heart stung. He had delayed coming until he was sure he could sneak out of the castle. How much pain had he cost this poor girl with his decision to wait? How much more suffering had she endured?

"It's alright. I'm here to help you." He said, putting smile on his face as he took in her bloodied form. A particularly nasty gash across her breasts stood out. Sectumsempra. The mark was scarred over though. Someone had healed her, and then kept cutting her to prolong her pain.

An inner anger burned in Harry. The hatred he had felt for Voldemort ever since he had discovered that the creature was responsible for his parent's death had only increased since his visions had begun appearing in entirety. He loathed sleep. Sleep showed him the devils of the world, and the things that he could not change.

Well... he would change one of them. At least one. This one small light... she would live.

"A-are you one of _them?"_ The girl plead, a slight quiver in her small voice. She was blonde, and probably had turned heads all her life. Attractive and thin, Harry would've found her very attractive in any other situation. But his anger clouded any sort of childish emotions he might've once had.

"I'm here to save you." Harry finally settled on for his response, as he began to cast the healing spells that had come from his fifth year curriculum. Simple spells but as often was the case with magic, the complicated arts of real life were made simple. Broken bones reset in the girl's shoulder and her bleeding wounds resealed themselves before Harry's eyes.

"I... I'm sorry... for what happened to you. I wish I could've..." He said, trailing off as his words died.

Her eyes were trained solely on his wand, alight with terror.

"I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe..." Harry's words felt hollow even as he spoke them, but they were the only consolation he could give.

The girl gulped, fear caught in her throat as began to shake.

"Do... do you feel better?" He asked. "I'm... not the best at healing. But..."

Tears began to spill down the blonde's beautiful pale cheeks. The tears trailed over freckles, falling from lovely blue iris's that made Harry want to weep as well. Shel pulled herself up a bit, to her elbows, and met his eyes. With one hand she tried to wipe away her tears and view him without the blurry window of tear-stained eyes, but she failed.

Harry felt awkward for a moment before he leaned in. His arm slowly wrapped around her shoulder, holding her. Supporting her and letting her lay back in his arm. She flinched at his touch at first, but as his fingers closed around the petite outline of her back, she collapsed. Falling wholeheartedly into his embrace the girl began to weep in earnest, shedding tears and shame onto Harry's accepting shoulder as she hugged to him for dear life.

Her tears were joyous, but she had no words. Only tears. Tears for the horror, and knowing just how close she had been to death. The poor girl didn't understand how she was no longer in so much pain. She didn't know how much energy and power it took to heal wounds the likes of which she'd had. Who knew what other dark curses might still be lingering about on the girl. But dammit, Harry had saved her.

That alone was enough for his trip to be here. She was safe...

_"How the hell am I going to explain_ this _one?" _He thought to himself dismally. But after a few minutes of letting the girl cry out all her tears, her relief, her horror, he contented himself to the only true option.

_"She must forget..."_ He thought sadly. "_She will live with this horror for the rest of her life... unless she forgets." _

"Wh-what's your name?" He asked awkwardly. He'd never been good with ladies. That was the twin's arena. Or maybe Seamus.

The girl took some time to regain her composure, failing five or ten times to utter her name. But finally she succeeded.

"E-Ei... Eiko."

"Eiko." Harry repeated. "A beautiful name." He said to her, giving her a grin. In another life this girl would've looked down on him. She would've stared him down her upturned nose and judged him unworthy of her in an instant. Her beauty was unparallelled. Manacured fingers showed just how delicate the small girl was.

And they'd ruined her...

He'd seen their acts. Rape and worse...

They'd ruined her, and then dropped a table on her and left her for dead, all for their _sport._ Voldemort himself present, the one who elicited the loudest squeals had received the highest renown. A new death eater, all of them were new as Harry had never seen them in previous dreams, had been the victor. Solington Hibbs had been rewarded for his _innovative kill. _

But the girl had lived...

A shudder again ran through Harry as he remembered seeing it all. Feeling what the Dark Lord had felt... the joy at seeing youths follow in his own footsteps, all while trying desperately to differentiate his own thoughts from Voldemort's.

He felt sick now holding her. Knowing what had happened to her. What people of his own kind had done to her. She'd been innocent, a tool used merely for sport and gain.

"I'm sorry." He said consolingly. "I"m sorry for what they did, and I'm sorry again, for taking it away."

Through her tear streaked snivels she turned her blue eyes, wide and innocent, up to his. "W-what?" She asked wretchedly. It tore his heart, but he knew what was for the best.

_"Obliviate..." _This would not be an act of murder, rape and mayhem. No. Just vandalism. She was out with friends and when she returned her home was in shambles. That was what had happened. That was _all_ that had happened...

_"Oh Harry Potter..." _The voice put Harry's back up and on edge. The girl in his arms instantly went frigid as ice, frozen like a statue as her eyes glazed over in the aftermath of his spell. "So _kind..._ so _courageous. _I knew that laying a trap like this would have consequences but who could've _guessed_!"

The voice was delighted. Harry felt the emotion in his head. It burned, but Harry felt none of it. Fear burrowed through him as he stood, his own cloak making scraffing noises against the rubble covered dining room floor.

Harry looked up. There at the top of the staircase stood the dark lord. Waiting. Smiling a vicious smile, with rat's teeth and raven's eye glowing.

"Who could have _guessed," _Voldemort continued as he slowly stepped down the stairs. "that you would come with no support at all? Not even your little squires, mudblood and clueless with you this time. _So_ courageous!"

Harry raised his wand. Voldemort seemed amused.

"You think to fight me again Harry? You believe some miraculous escape shall come to you this time? Let me remind you... there is no portal cup for you to run from me again." The dark lord's voice was full of humor as he reached the bottom of the stairs. The man stood a head and a half taller than Harry, lightly paled skin, a sickening impression of a nose jutting out beneath his red eyes.

Harry stood his ground. His wand was ready, Voldemort did not even hold his. Slowly, Harry fingered his pocket. The miniaturized broom he had used to travel here now seeming far more important than it had a few short moments ago.

"And who said I would try to run?" He taunted. His insides were jelly and his legs felt like cardboard. Ever particle of his body screamed "_RUN!" _But there would be no point. He'd fallen for the dark lord's trap. His only chance was to fight.

"Ah. Griffindor. How foolish of me. It always addles me. You've shown youself to be clever... _so_ clever for such a young boy. Why, _why_ were you placed in that wretched house? You could've been great. You could've stood at my side..."

"I will _never_ stand at your side!" He screamed hatefully.

"Yes." Voldemort said despondently. "I know. Pity."

Harry didn't even hear the curse, but he knew it well. He dodged on instinct and the green light that slid past him and over the forgotten body of Eiko left a mark of dark scorch in the wooden walls behind him.

_"Stupify!"_ Harry shouted but it was painfully slow. The dark lord seemed to _bend_ around his spell, disregarding it. Ignoring it. He would not allow their spells to connect as he had in the graveyard. He was too quick for Harry to counter his magic and he knew it. A falcon, toying with a mouse.

"_Malcondros!" _The Dark Lord uttered, and suddenly the daylight that had been pouring through the windows, the light from the lanterns above, all light whatsoever, vanished.

Harry was left in the darkness, but he was quick on his feet. He ducked instantly, to avoid the jet of blue light, a silent spell that He did not recognize. Then he rolled, dodging two more spells, a fire spell that burned a man from his insides, and a freezing spell meant to hold someone in a case of ice.

"I can _see_ you, Harry." The voice echoed but not from anywhere near Voldemort had been. Instead, the voice emanated from the opposite side of the room, near the Ice Box.

Harry was flummoxed for a moment, by Voldemort's own self confidence. The fool could see him? Well then what was the point of hiding?

"_Lumos Maximus!" _A brilliant light burst forth from his wand, and in moments, the light had been sucked away, vanished as a if stretched, pulled from his wand and into a sort of black darkness in the middle of the room.

Harry's mind thought quickly. A small orb, he'd thought he'd seen in the moments before his spell's light had been sapped away. "_Incindio! Bombardio! Derectos!" _Burning, destroying, desintegrating. One of the spells could surely destroy the orb.

He'd been right. The world plunged back into light as the orb which stole the light from the room burned under the fires of his first spell. Harry's eyes found Voldemort instantly, but the man was quicker.

A green burst of light barreled towards Harry, and the boy did the first thing he could think of. One of the legs of the table still jutting into the air transformed itself into a massive pingpong paddle at Harry's command and took the killing curse for him. Unlike the wall, the table leg blasted to pieces, the spell exploding behind it.

"I'm going to kill you Harry." The words were calm. Controlled. Creepy. Voldemort had disappeared, hiding himself from Harry's view, but Harry knew it would be foolish to try to run. Fight or die. His only options.

Fight or Die.

He thought of the girl, broken and beaten on the ground. Healed by him; healed, but surely dead, lest he find some way to get her out of here. He thought of those who had died already. His parents. Cedric. The thousands of deaths from the first war, thousands of names he did not know. Names of worthy people, muggle and wizard alike.

He turned, the slightest creak of wood drawing his attention.

_"Syusto!" _A simple spell, the room suddenly burst with a font of pixie dust that blasted itself all over everything. Voldemort's invisibilty was revoked, his form revealed by the layers of sparkling dust.

"_Reducto!" _The wall burst forth, wood exploding outwards, but the Dark Lord dodged with a ragged ease.

"Your parlor tricks are useless." He said with scorn.

_"Reducto! Reducto!" _Each word was accompanied by a sonic _boom_. Harry put his full power into each spell, and the walls of the building began to shake... those that remained anyway.

The dark lord nimbly dodged each spell. Advancing forward. Panic settled into his mind as Harry began incantation after incantation. Each uselessly dodged by the slow steady advance of Voldemort.

Within moments the dark lord hovered over him, and Harry, his back suddenly pressed up against a wall, sweat pouring down his face as he tried to keep firing, felt a cold chill as his wand was physically ripped from his fingers.

Held against the wall, eyes burning, he stared at Voldemort, who only now deemed spellwork necessary. Harry found himself bound in ropes. A simple _incarcerous. _

_Death is coming. _

A voice. Soft, yet angry sounded in his head, and somehow Harry knew what it was. The fragment. The connection between he and the dark lord, shared for so long.

"This was the boy who would kill me? This? Pitiful." Voldemort said with mirth. "The prophecy is fulfilled. Either may die at the hands of the other... You die by my hand today, Harry. By my hand."

_Do you want to live?_

The voice seemed appeasing. Anxious? What in the world.

"Avada..."

_Your soul. Move it!_

_'What?' _Harry thought. He stared up into his enemy's wand, broken and defeated. '_Move my...?' _

"..._Kedavra!"_

_Murder. The act of murder is needed. Your soul. You must move it._

The words were his own. His own voice. Spilling knowledge into his head that was _not_ his own. He'd known parcel tongue. He'd gained the ability from his scar. Was this more...?

_Not just pieces. The whole thing. You know how to live. _

_'That is dark!' _His own thoughts responded. '_Dark magic!' _

_Dark magic, or death. Your choice. _

Harry did as asked. He didn't know how he'd done it. He didn't know why. But he gathered his soul, gathered the last vestiges of his life and prepared.

The curse struck him.

The gates opened, as he knew they would. With his own death he threw his entire soul, out into the void of the room of a house off the corner of Maudevauk Boulevard.

Harry Potter died.

* * *

Laughter echoed throughout the entire estate of 1414 South Pedgewick Lane. That was not the name any of its current inhabitants would refer to it by, however. This was one of the dark lord's lairs. Protected and well fortified, this underground sanctuary was a paradise. Thousands of muggles to torture and play with for all who wished were kept in the dungeons below. Gathered from all across the world, their beauty was exquisite. Like little pieces of furniture, or perhaps small pets that death eaters could dote upon if they felt so inclined.

Few did.

"Bellatrix!" Lucius Malfoy hissed. "What is the meaning of this?"

Bellatrix Lestrage shot a scathing look at Lucius. "Be silent! The Dark Lord exalts! You will not ruin his glory! Silent!"

Still the laughter pervaded. It was endless. Had been endless for hours now. Lucius would never disobey the dark lord, but that didn't mean he couldn't be annoyed by his master. What could possibly have happened to make the Dark One so very happy?

"Harry Potter is dead." Bellatrix stated, in almost a whisper.

Lucius blinked. Well. That was news. "How? And why does it matter so much? Anyone with half a mind knows that it wasn't _Potter_ who stopped the Dark Lord all those years ago, but his mudblood mother. Why is the death of one boy so important? Even if it is _him?_"

"It is not for us to question..." Bellatrix responded. Then she turned back in the direction from which the laughter exuded. She preened, as if basking in the joy of the Dark Lord. Lucius twitched. The woman was insane. But also, right.

"That it is not." He replied.

Word began to spread.

* * *

Some hundred miles away, in a small house on the corner of Maudevauk Boulevard, a young muggle girl named Eiko awoke with a pounding headache.

Gathering her bearings she looked around, trying to discern where she was. What was happening? Why did her head hurt so much? So many questions greeted her upon waking but when she opened her eyes, all of them fled.

All but one.

"WHAT IN BLOODY HELL HAPPENED TO MY HOUSE!" She screamed. Thought filtered in, and horror filled her mind. "... When my parents get back from their vacation they're going to flaming kill me..."

It would be hours before the girl would notice the strange, lightning bolt scar burning across her forehead.

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **_School is out and I am free. Almost three weeks of free writing await me. Finally, finally I have time. Expect new chapters of EVERYTHING. My muse is back and in full ardor. I can't wait to begin.

I hope this chappy of His War has satiated you. Her War's epic next chapter is going to be a while in coming. Too much effort goes into its creation. I've probably lost half my audience with the long delays but I promise it is not dead.

To all who like and have read my fanfictions, keep your eyes open on the book shelves. _Array's Ring, _my own book is shaping into the fringes of half done. As always, an epic tale about the end of the world, and the heroes who seek to stop it.

As for this! **Leave a review!**

Till Next!  
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